


Let It Be

by waterloosunset123



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angry John, Angst and Romance, Conflict Resolution, Gen, M/M, Patient Sherlock, Pining Sherlock, Possibly Unrequited Love, Post-Episode: s04e01 The Six Thatchers, References to the Beatles, Sherlock babysits
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-13
Updated: 2018-04-11
Packaged: 2019-02-14 12:10:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13007493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waterloosunset123/pseuds/waterloosunset123
Summary: "It was so easy, slipping into thoughts of John here."Unbeknownst to John, 2 months after "anyone but you," Sherlock unexpectedly babysits Rosie when Molly can't.Alternatively titled: "How a consulting detective goes about fixing his relationship with an ex-army doctor without getting beaten to a pulp." What, too long? Perhaps you're right.





	1. Let It Be

**Author's Note:**

> -Takes place 2 months after S04E01, "The Six Thatchers."  
> -In case you didn't figure it out, I didn't like John hitting Sherlock in "The Lying Detective." I understood it, but it still broke my heart. This is me trying to fix that, because I think there could have been _many _non-violent ways for them to patch things up that would still be in character.__

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock willed himself not to think about it. To just care for the child without remembering her father.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Point of View: Sherlock, mostly.  
> -Third person, past tense.

On a warm spring evening, utter silence at the Watson residence had been broken by a baby monitor, and for once Sherlock Holmes had been the one to answer its call. He put down the book he was reading and signalled to Molly Hooper, Rosie's godmother, and up until now one of Rosie’s official babysitters since the whole A.G.R.A. business was uncovered, that _he_ would be the one to respond to the baby’s needs this time.

He put on his old green dressing gown, especially brought for the occasion of helping to care for Rosie, and went to her. Her room, he could tell by the height the vertical brushstrokes sometimes met each other on the wall, had been re-painted of a soothing light pink colour by her father himself. John had also been the one to change her last, accounting for the slightly firmer closure of the left side of her nappy (Molly and Mrs. Hudson are both right-handed). Sherlock willed himself not to think about it. To just care for the child without remembering her father. It was an impossible task, for she had John’s eyes. Her smile was John’s smile. Everything about her screamed _John_. And everything about her screamed _You, Sherlock Holmes, are the reason Mary's dead._

Everything, of course, except for the child herself. When she was this upset, she just… _screamed_. He was genuinely impressed by the power of the lungs in such a little body. Calming her down, thankfully, was a quick process and proved easy enough. Sherlock supposed she just needed the attention.

Molly Hooper stood at the door a little while later. “She’s eight months old today.”

“Soon she’ll be walking,” Sherlock answered with a smile, placing a now-placated Rosie on the wooden changing table by the window. “Or so I suppose. What age do they usually do that? Remind me to search up neural development in infants, Molly. I am unfortunately uninformed on the subject.”

He worked quickly to throw away the dirty nappy.

“Why are you doing this?”

He gently let go of the baby’s legs for a moment.  “She needed changing. I would have thought that self-explanatory.”

"That's not what I mean.”

It had been nearly 2 months, since Mary’s passing - since John’s dismissal of him. Since “anyone but _you_.” It was still difficult to answer these types of questions. So he didn’t. “Then what _do_ you mean?” he asked.

“Why put yourself through this?” she replied. “Why not just wait for him here and finally talk? Just wait till tomorrow morning.”

Sherlock looked intently at Rosie's smiling face to steady his emotions. John's smile stared back at him and had the opposite effect. “If he wanted to talk, he knows where I live," he answered, shortly. "The fact that he hasn’t initiated contact is evidence so strong, even the Yard could stumble onto the conclusion: He does not.”

Molly took a step towards him.  “Which brings me back to my question, Sherlock. Why are you doing this? I’m sorry, but he doesn’t _want_ you to help with Rosie.”

“I know.”

“I’m not sure he even wants you to know where he lives now” – here, Sherlock interjected with a _yes, so you’ve said_ before Molly continued unfazed – “I’m actually betraying him by letting you do this.”

Sherlock fastened the baby’s pyjamas and picked her up confidently. "I’m a godparent, too, Molly Hooper, lest you forget. And I must inform you that I fully intend to man that duty for as long as I am able.”

Molly had to smile at that. She put the baby back in her crib once he gave her over, and then she stood over it, making funny faces at Rosie, waving one toy or another, and speaking in a sing-song voice Sherlock was puzzled to hear many adults adopt in the presence of infants. “And now that matters to you, does it?" she said. "Being her godparent?”

“Of course, it matters. Why wouldn’t it matter to me?”

“Yeah, good question.”

"I'm afraid sarcasm doesn't quite agree with you, Molly.”

She smiled again. “I agree with it, though, I have to say. So what now?”

“I assume we wait in the next room for her to call again.”

“Not what I – never mind. Could you watch her for a couple of hours? I just heard yesterday–”

“Your sister’s back from America, I know. Go pick her up. Get her settled in.”

It all suddenly dawned on Molly. “You _complete_ \- so _that’s_ why you came _today_ , isn’t it? You knew I would have to call someone else in anyway, or take her with me.”

Sherlock gave an eloquent smile in response. “See you later, Molly.” 

And so, for the first time in his life, Sherlock Holmes had the responsibility of watching an infant by himself. Which he did rather splendidly, in between his reading and browsing for cases, for the first four hours and forty-five minutes. 

It was so easy, slipping into thoughts of John here. Normally he can contain them, or at least attempt to. Whenever his mind is otherwise engaged, it does not take much effort to focus on the new mysteries and new clients. But here: John’s slightly uneven footsteps on the carpet (a subtle form of his limp had returned), John’s new coat just out of the wash, hanging on the back of his bedroom door. He hadn’t known John was working as a surgeon again but the evidence spoke to it – new medical journals on his desk, new badge on his night table. A job which pays reasonably, it would seem – new laptop, new phone charger (unique to a new kind of phone), a few new trousers, ties, and shirts marking a definite improvement in his wardrobe. Without Sherlock’s influence, it seemed John was capable of flourishing as a physician. Not exactly new information, for John’s intelligence and medical skills were already broadly known to him, but Sherlock suddenly found himself in the right self-immolating frame of mind that paired well with involuntary recollection of this fact. That John was in some ways better without him.

And so, four hours and forty-five minutes later, as it neared midnight, Rosie cried again. After her feeding, and another changing, Sherlock had been compelled, by her continuing tears, to hold on to her. But, he thought, if all her basic needs were being met, what motive had an eight-month-old to cry as if she felt as much grief as he did? None. Then, Sherlock had a sobering thought: _What if this is simply_ sentiment- despair- _just like his? Are infants even capable of it? Could Rosie remember her mother on some level? Did she miss her, too? Did she miss John as terribly as he did?_

He couldn't know. He knew next to nothing about early childhood memories – only that his first was of an Irish Setter puppy. So, after checking to see that she wasn't still hungry or wet again, and doing a basic examination to see she wasn't ill somehow, he tried reasoning, and playing and cuddling and rocking, but nothing worked. Not even her favourite stuffed panda bear. Forty long minutes went by. _Co_ _uld Rosie remember Mary?_ _Did she miss John?_ He didn’t know. Without knowing quite why, he reverted to pure instinct and began softly humming a tune he’d heard somewhere. The words never came to him. He hugged her close and hummed.

Rosie, miraculously, fell asleep as he sang, rocking her about the room. There was the slide of a key at the front door, but, for once, he didn’t pay attention. Not to the almost imperceptibly uneven footsteps, not to the heavy grocery bag landing on the kitchen counter. He just kept humming.“Let it be,” John said.

Sherlock’s wits failed him for a split second. His breath had momentarily been knocked from his lungs. “How long have you been there?”

“'Let It Be',” John repeated, a bit more emphatically this time.

“What?”

“The song, Sherlock.”

“Oh.”

Then, something unexpected happened. John laughed. It wasn’t anywhere near a carefree, honest laugh. But it would do. “Of course you’d be the one human being on planet Earth to delete The Beatles.”

For a moment, Sherlock said nothing.

Then he replied, trying for levity as well: “Have some faith in me, John. Not entirely.” What he meant was of course different. What he meant was that he still vividly remembered teaching John how to slow-dance to "Here, There, and Everywhere," Mary’s favourite song. That night was so burned into his memory, because as much as Sherlock was used to  _being_ right on a daily basis, about countless cases and facts and ideas, it had always been John and only John - his words, his smiles, his touch - that made him  _feel_ right. And his absence, it followed logically... Sherlock thought that’d much better go unmentioned.

John looked him in the eye, perhaps seeming to understand the hidden meaning nonetheless - or so Sherlock could only hope. He reached out and held his sleeping daughter for a long while before kissing her forehead and putting her in her crib.

Finally, he turned to Sherlock. “We need to talk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Song references are of course "Let It Be" and "Here, There, and Everywhere" by The Beatles.  
> -Thank you for reading, liking, and commenting. Any kind of feedback at all is welcome.  
> -I'm glad I finally posted this, since I've had it in my computer forever.  
> -If you're interested at all in the continuation of this little fic, I could be persuaded to write it, if there's enough popular demand. Just drop me a line, and we'll see if my creative writing skills cooperate.  
> -FEBRUARY 5TH, AND APRIL 11TH, 2018: Minor rewrites.


	2. Things We Said Today

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John really was tired. Perhaps they could postpone their row until tomorrow?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -So my creative writing skills finally cooperated and I wrote the second half of this story.  
> -Point of View: John.  
> -Past tense, third person.  
> -Again, set 2 months after the events of S4E01, "The Six Thatchers."

When John had driven home that night, he had been fervently hoping for sleep. 

Then Sherlock happened.

Story of his life, really.

John opened the refrigerator and got the milk. He poured a bit into his tea, and mixed in honey. He usually didn’t take it with honey, but his throat had given him signs of an oncoming cold, so he preferred to get ahead of whatever he had caught at the children’s wing of the hospital two days ago. The cup was placed in its blue-rimmed saucer, and both saucer and cup in a simple plastic tray. He looked up. Over the breakfast bar, he could see Sherlock.

Their eyes met.

“Tea?” he asked.

“Thank you,” said Sherlock. John prepared another cup.

He sat on the sofa perpendicular to the recliner, where Sherlock now sipped his drink, looking anywhere but at him.

And John took the chance. He observed.

One time, about four years previously, before Reichenbach, Sherlock had broken his own record for sleep deprivation. It was one of those cases. Even John had been awake around 37 hours. But Sherlock worked for 51 hours and change, and even in a drug binge, John had never again seen him look so _tired._

Until now.

He really did look like hell.

So John’s kindness won out, no matter how much he wanted to rip into Sherlock for showing up to babysit, unannounced and unwanted.

“Did she give you any trouble?”

Sherlock caught on slower than usual. “No,” he said. “In fact, I believe she rather went easy on me, considering.”

John waited in vain for Sherlock to continue. So he broke the silence and pressed on, asking the usual parental questions about Rosie’s wellbeing during his absence. He made sure to be extra thorough, just to irritate him.

Silence followed. And John didn’t know what to say this time. But Sherlock did.

“The bear.”

“What?”

“The panda bear. It’s not her favourite.”

“Of course not. Who said it is? It’s the small brown bear she won’t go to sleep without.”

Sherlock looked at him in disbelief. “The _brown_ bear. There’s always something.”

John remembered. And almost smiled.

The silence this time was longer, but much more familiar. It was easy for John to sip his tea and close his eyes for a few seconds. He really was tired. Perhaps they could postpone their row until tomorrow?

“She missed you,” Sherlock said.

"Not more than I missed her, believe me,” John replied, almost automatically. Until he realized what Sherlock was saying. _She_ meant _we._

“I know,” he added.

“I’m sorry.”

John closed his eyes briefly once again. “What exactly are you sorry for? She died. Mary died. Saving you. You can do many things, but you can’t fix that.” He felt his voice about to give out. “How could you let that happen?”

Sherlock looked at him directly. Behind the tiredness, there was a universe of hurt. But he didn’t voice it. As he put his teacup down on the tray on the coffee table, Sherlock’s hands trembled slightly.

“You’ve been using again. In withdrawal, are you?”

“John."

That seemed to infuse John’s system with a shot of energy he didn’t quite have. “You can spend the rest of the night here, but after that..." The ending of that sentence - for Sherlock anyway - would be crystal clear.

Sherlock stood up, taking a sharp breath. “Well, in that case, thank you for your hospitality. I might as well be going now.”

John crossed the space between them and pushed him back down onto the recliner. “No, you don’t.”

“Do please make up your mind, John.”

“How long have you been awake?”

Sherlock said nothing.

“I thought so,” said John. “What about the drugs? When was the last time you used?”

Sherlock wasn’t hesitant now. “Three days ago. I knew I was coming here.”

John sat again, and gave a sigh of pure exhaustion. “Of course, you did. You twat.”

A phone chimed.  For once, Sherlock answered. Molly was told of John’s early arrival. She would remain home.

John, meanwhile, had turned on the television, which was now the only light in the room. The news played on mute. Something about Manchester United and the Champions League neither of them had the slightest glimmer of interest in.

“Exactly why did you come here? What did you think was going to happen today?”

“I don’t know,” said Sherlock, stretching out fully on his chair. “I’m your best friend. You needed someone to take care of Rosie. I seemed to be an obvious choice.”

“At least two of those things are lies.”

Sherlock half-smiled. “I’m glad I’m here, though.”

“Are you?”

“Yes. Rosie. She. John, she’s the most remarkable, fascinating little creature I’ve ever seen.”

John’s smile was sincere this time. “Beats out bees, does she?"

"Not quite."

That forced a chuckle out of John. "I thought you didn’t like children.”

“Children? No. My goddaughter? Without a doubt.”

There was a pause where they looked back at the television. It was an update on the health status of a famous actress who had recently fallen ill and been taken to a special wing of a hospital financed by philanthropist Culverton Smith.

“Mary would want me to forgive you, you know. She would want me to move on. She would want _you_ to help me move on.”

“I didn’t see it coming, John. If I could have predicted she would jump in front of me, I would have stopped her. You can’t seriously think I wouldn’t have.”

“Of course, not. How stupid do you think I am?”

“On your best days or on your worst days?”

“Piss off.”

Even with the insult, the emotion that shone blue in Sherlock’s eyes was now tinged with hope. It was nearly 2 in the morning.

“We need to go to bed, Sherlock. Come on, help me move this.”

They moved the coffee table and pulled out the bed from the sofa.

“I’ll get you a pillow and a duvet, hang on.”

When he returned, he found Sherlock picking up a photo from the coffee table. It’d been placed face down on the table before.

“That was after the Christening,” John told him, softly. “That evening, the three of us went for a walk. Just before the sun set, in the park, there was a line of ducklings walking outside the little pond, and Mary thought that us sitting on the grass, with the pond and the ducklings behind us – that’d be a perfect picture to end the day with.”

 John stopped himself. His voice was half a second away from breaking. He didn’t care.

“And then it began to rain,” deduced Sherlock.

“Exactly.” John chuckled. “We barely had time to take it before we got soaked.” He gave a long sigh. “We should sleep.”

“Yes, of course.” Sherlock removed his suit jacket and his dress shirt. He climbed under the duvet in his trousers and plain white t-shirt, while John, already in his pajamas, sat on the bed, facing the kitchen.

“I miss her.”

John felt Sherlock move to sit right next to him. “Me, too.”

There were unshed tears now in John’s eyes, and he knew, even in the near dark, Sherlock was watching him like a hawk. He didn’t care. He didn’t keep himself from sobbing. And eventually, from sobbing into Sherlock’s shoulder.

The up and down motions of Sherlock’s hand on John’s neck and upper back were soothing. Soothing enough that John’s sobs died out and he was close to sleep within ten minutes.

“John?”

“Yes?”

"Go sleep. I’m told it’s important.”

Sherlock moved back to get under the duvet again, and to his surprise, John followed him and laid down next to him.

“Can I stay here?”

“Only if you rescind my banishment.”

John flipped over and lay prone. “Cheeky,” he murmured against the pillow. “Fine. Alright."

There was a smile in Sherlock’s voice he obviously hoped John wouldn't hear. “Does that mean I’m forgiven?”

"Suppose so.”

“Really?”

“Yes,” John said. "I shouldn’t have been angry anyway.”

“In that case, I might possibly forgive you.”

John smiled. “Prick.”

Sherlock stretched out to reach the remote control on the recliner. He powered off the television.

A few minutes later, John was awake again. Because of _course_ , he was.

“John?” Sherlock whispered.

“What?”

“I believe there might be much more to this Culverton Smith business.”

John laughed. “Fuck’s sake. Go to sleep, Sherlock.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Yay for non-violent conflict resolution!  
> -Title comes from the song  
> "Things We Said Today" on The Beatles' "A Hard Day's Night" album.  
> -This is the final chapter of this fic and the final version of this chapter for the foreseeable future.  
> -Thank you so much for reading and commenting. As always, any feedback at all is absolutely welcome.


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